


Everyday I Love Ya

by EvieSmallwood



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: Stan is insecure. Richie comes to the rescue, as always.





	Everyday I Love Ya

**Author's Note:**

> Some mentions of an eating disorder.

“Bill, do you think I’m fat?”

Stan paused where he stood (about ten feet away from the clubhouse, hidden behind a tree with a book of birds clutched to his chest). He leaned around so that he could just see the two lone figures in the grass.

Bill and Eddie were sitting across from one another, a deck of cards between them and a pile of change to Bill’s right. Bill had lowered his cards, frowning. “W-What do you m-mean, Eddie?”

Eddie shrugged, appearing a little helpless. “I don’t know. All you guys are leaning out, you know? And then there’s me, and I... I’ve got baby fat, Bill. I’m fifteen and a half and I’ve got _baby fat._ ”

Bill, with all of his sixteen year old wisdom, gave Eddie a disbelieving look. “Baby fat? Eh-Eddie, you’re n-normal! R-Richie may be a twink, but that doesn’t make him any buh-better than you.”

“But I’m not normal. I’m _chubby_.”

“S-so?”

“So who’s gonna go for a guy like me?”

“I would,” Bill replied, without any sort of hesitation at all. He doesn’t know he doesn’t always. “Besides, cuh-cuh- _cuddling_ is w-way better. You’re not a-all sharp bones like S-Stan.”

Very quickly, Stan’s breath shortened. He jerked away from the scene—almost ripping himself out of it—and retreated up to the roadside, heart slamming against his ribcage as a thousand thoughts swam in his mind. _Am I not good enough for Bill? Am I too skinny? What did I do?_

For a long time, Stan Uris hadn’t given his weight—or his body, rather—a second thought. He’d been a normal kid; as normal as anyone would allow him to be, anyway. He played catch with his dad, gave his mother homemade gifts over Hanukkah, did his homework... Then he started getting sick all the time, and that was when the weight had begun to slip off. He had found himself—more than once—grateful that he could slip his fingers around the middle of his arm, or count his ribs (even though some part of him knew that it wasn’t a good thing, a healthy thing). Those things had become constants; like the flicking of the light switches or the straightening of shoes by the door. Everything had to be the same, always, or it would descend into chaos.

And so to hear Bill call him sharp and bony like they were dirty, bad things— _awful_ things—chaos descended upon him. He leaned against a fence, panting, because he had never expected to hear anything like that from Bill; his hero, his first real crush, his brother in arms. _Am I even awake, or is this just another bad dream?_

The sound of a car yanked him from his own thoughts. His head snapped up to see Richie’s piece of shit car pull up beside him. The window creaked as it rolled down. “Evening, young chap! Care for a dilly dally down at the—”

He stopped talking all at once. The engine died. Richie yanked the lock with brute force and then scurried out of the car. “Stan? What’s wrong?“

Stan swallowed. “Nothing. Just... personal stuff. What were you saying?”

“The diner? You look like you could use a milkshake, anyways.”

Stan nodded. _Anything to take my mind off of my stupid baggage._ “Sure, Rich.”

Richie brightened, and Stan’s heart skipped a beat. In that moment, he saw everything he didn’t want to see; he saw what he had been blocking out in favour of order, in favour of the constants. He saw Chaos, and Chaos was Richie.

They slipped into the front seats, and, after a brief struggle with the transmission, left the Barrens behind.

* * *

A strawberry milkshake separated the two of them, perfectly placed in the middle of the red linoleum table. Richie tapped his fingers against it, eyeing Stan thoughtfully.

“You drank more than usual,” he said, almost reluctantly.

Stan shrugged. “I didn’t eat breakfast.” That was a lie: one half of a poppyseed bagel and a light spread of cream cheese; water.

Richie hummed. He stirred his straw. “Is everything really okay?”

“I...” he wanted to say that _No, it was not,_ and that _He really needed someone to talk to_ , but in that moment the bell above the door chimed. In walked Bill, Eddie, Bev and Mike. They were all laughing. All perfect in their own ways.

Stan would never be perfect to anyone. He had accepted that long ago. His nose was too big, his skin too dark (he recalled, briefly, a cold feeling against his face; snow in his mouth)—he was too stubborn and skeptical and harboured an odd interest for the abnormal. He ate too little and he sat too straight in a seat. _Intimidating_ , Ben had called him once. _I don’t want to be intimidating. I just want to be small._

Tears welled up in his eyes. He looked away from the four of them, looked away from Rich, and ducked out of the booth. The back door had no bell, thank God.

Once outside, Stan breathed. The sky was dark and velvety, sprinkled with silver stars.

He knew that Richie was behind him. He could almost _feel_ him.

“Stan?”

“I’m not okay, Rich,” Stan said. He turned, and saw Richie’s face fall. “I’m... not good enough. I’m ugly, and I’m mean, and I don’t laugh enough, and no one’s ever gonna hold me because I’m too sharp—”

He sucked in a breath and then sobbed, folding into himself. Richie was saying something, and crying too, but Stan couldn’t hear him. All he heard was the sound of himself breaking.

Richie put his hand on Stan’s back. “Stanny?”

“I know,” he said. _What do I know?_ “I’m sorry, Rich. I gotta go.”

Richie ripped his hand away. There was something dead in his eyes. “Yeah. Why don’t you do that.”

* * *

He sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of him. Steam rose up in curls. Stan watched it, half entranced and half disinterested. He folded his hands before him.

“Stanley? Too much sugar?”

“It’s fine, mom. Thanks.”

Andrea Uris smiled, looking a little anxious for him. “I’ll... give you some time alone, okay?”

“Thank you.”

He watched as she retreated up the stairs, somehow managing to do so in heels (why not just take them off first?), and then she was gone.

Stan hesitantly reached out, grasping the warm cup, and remembered.

_You’re not too anything, Stanny. I love you. I would cuddle you. You’re perfect._

The teacup feel onto the table. Thankfully, it did not shatter. Stan pushed away from the dripping hot mess, hands shaking as he tried to sop it up with a nearby rag.

 _You’re perfect_.

He bit his lip. Within minutes, his shoes were on and tied.

_I love you._

Richie Tozier loved him. Dear God, why hadn’t he said anything? Richie Tozier, who had held and comforted him down by the Barrens two summers ago, listening to him rant and cry and yell. Richie Tozier, who understood that Stan could be a neurotic piece of shit and always made sure the silverware was straight at their table before they sat down so Stan didn’t have to do it, and cracked jokes when Stan was sad, and _loved_ him.

The door shut softly, and then Stan was on the back of his bike, tearing off the lawn and into the night.

* * *

The sound of Buddy Holly’s _Peggy Sue_ drifted through the cracked window. Stan tapped it, eyes on Richie’s curled up form. He looked up, though, and Stan saw that his cheeks and eyes were red.

Stan grabbed the window and pushed it up. Richie plopped his head back down. “Thought you’d rejected me.”

Stan swallowed. “Richie I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“I was just trying to help,” Richie interrupted. “S’okay, I’m used to being ignored. Once you say enough, most folks figure there isn’t much else to be heard.”

Stan cracked his knuckles nervously. He approached the bed, hesitantly putting his hand on Rich’s shoulder. Richie flinched, but said nothing. “That’s not true,” Stan said. “I’m always gonna care.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Sure, Stan.”

“I’m _sorry_.”

Stan blinked back his tears, but then Richie’s fingers were intertwining with his own, and his brow was furrowed with concern. “I’m still up for that cuddle, you know.”

Stan sobbed a laugh. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it took me so long...”

“Shut up, Stanny.” Richie smiled a little. “Just lay down, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder that this was written before the movie and is completely book based! Thank you for reading!


End file.
